


Catch and Release

by Neyiea



Series: misfit(toy)s [3]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Episode: s04e16 One of My Three Soups, Gen, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 14:53:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18573763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyiea/pseuds/Neyiea
Summary: No one had ever tried to help him before.There is definitely something delightfullywrongwith Bruce Wayne.





	Catch and Release

**Author's Note:**

> Back at it again, writing my boysssss.  
> We finally get a bit from Bruce's point of view this time around.

His blistering lips burn as he speaks, not that a little pain is enough to ever stop him from talking. It might be enough for him to give a bit too much away, though. It might be just enough for nostalgia about past burns, past pains, to take over for just a few seconds too long, because Bruce Wayne is looking at Jerome like he’s something that he’s not. Something that he hasn’t been for a long time. Weak. Helpless.

Broken is not a word that he can be defined by. Bruce had even said so himself.

Still, the situation alone is enough for laughter to bubble forth from his red, red mouth.

Just what was Bruce playing at? What was he doing in his spare time that he thought any of this would be a good idea? Did his precious butler know that he was out past nightfall, putting his life in danger for someone who had more than once tried to kill him?

There was definitely something incredibly _off_ about Bruce Wayne. 

One would think, given the current band of miscreants that Jerome was happily spearheading, that he’d find himself less preoccupied by the strange paradoxes that appeared to make up Bruce’s character. What was one stubborn, peculiar teen when compared to the amazingly unhinged people that Jerome had brought into the fold? He should be barely worth a footnote in the current chapter of Jerome’s life.

Yet here he is, ever the interloper, piquing Jerome’s interest again. Bruce’s protective instincts having overridden whatever common sense he may or may not have nearly as soon as he’d seen the situation that Jerome was in. 

His misplaced compassion is… Honestly, it’s bewildering. 

Fuck, he can’t quite get over the hilarity of it all.

He eyes Bruce, pinned to the countertop by a man easily three times his weight, pool cue against his throat.

“The only thing funnier than you saving my life,” the glee fades from his voice, and he points the gun at the strongman holding Bruce down, “would be if I saved yours.”

Bruce struggles to get up. “No!”

Jerome ignores him and shoots. The strongman slumps forward, pinning Bruce to the counter. Jerome watches Bruce closely as he strides towards him. Bruce breathes fast and shallow, his hands struggling to push his dead attacker away. There’s a little splattering of blood on his face, and he looks as white as a ghost.

Knives certainly didn’t bring out this kind of reaction in him. 

“Alone again, at long last.” He reaches out a steady hand and pushes the dead weight out of the way. He’s not sure what he’s expecting. Something fun, no doubt, if Bruce gets a hold of himself and stops having flashbacks to the night of his parents’ murder, or whatever it is he’s doing. Jerome wonders if he’d try to take his gun, if he’d finally have the guts to give in to that twisting, wretched, enthralling thing that Jerome had seen inside of him in the maze of mirrors and pull the trigger.

Probably not, considering that Bruce seems to be in a mood to assist rather than assault him, but that doesn’t stop him from _wanting_.

He wants to see that darkness again. It was one thing for the weak-willed, weak-minded sheep of this city to give into their base urges. But virtuous, golden-boy Bruce Wayne? Who’d had the perfect chance and motive to end it all but foolishly didn’t take it? 

That would be a true victory.

Jerome stands in front of him, holds one bloody cheek in his gloved hand, and leans in.

“Brucie, my favorite volunteer,” he coos, and Bruce seems like he’s finally coming back to the present. “Sorry about this. Except not really.”

He slams Bruce’s head against the counter, then hefts his unconscious body over his shoulder.

Information on his long-lost brother and getting his hands on Bruce Wayne again, all in one night? It was well-worth the new scalding marks on his face.

“And to think,” he laughs, patting Bruce’s back, “I could have been done for if it weren’t for you, little man. These heroic tendencies are going to get you killed someday.”

He cackles as he walks out of the diner, leaving nothing but the dead and a forgotten napkin behind him.

x-x-x

Bruce groans as he wakes up, becoming increasingly aware of the terrible aching of his head as his mind scrambles to make sense of the pain and memories.

He’d been looking for, and found, Jerome. Held down with a freshly blistering mouth. The memory of it makes Bruce’s stomach churn, because even though Jerome is a criminally insane killer who’s tried to end his life more than once, no one deserved—

“Ah, waking up, are we?”

Bruce’s eyes snap open. In the gloom of the mostly empty, abandoned building he’s in he can see Jerome buttoning up a grey jacket.

The memories are a bit fuzzy through the pain, but he gets the gist of them. He tries to move and finds both of his wrists are separately handcuffed to the arms of the chair he’s sitting in, giving him more range of motion than if they’d been locked together behind his back, but not enough to do anything useful. The chair’s frame is made of metal, so this is not going to be easy.

Alfred is going to be so mad when he finds out about this. Selina probably will be too.

Jerome strolls over. The gun in his hand is not his uncle’s gun, it’s a revolver, and Bruce fights to keep a straight face. It’s not just Jerome’s actions that make him want to squirm; the sudden deadweight pinning him, the ringing in his ears, the feel of something warm and wet splattering onto the side of his face. It’s the confirmation of something so abhorrent that the darkness he knows is inside of him wants to lash out, even though it’s too late for justice to be dealt.

The idea of a child, even one who would grow up to be the crazed man standing in front of him, being beaten by family, by people whose top priority should have been to protect them—

Bruce’s heart aches in his chest. He tries not to let it show on his face.

Any weakness he shows here will be translated as something predictable and dull. If Jerome starts thinking of him as boring, as not worth any effort, he might not survive.

He relaxes into the chair underneath him and looks up at Jerome’s eyes so that he can attempt to ignore the gun in his hand.

“Jerome,” he greets with as much causality as he can muster as the redhead stops a few feet in front of him, leaning back to rest his weight against an ancient looking desk. 

“Hiya, Bruce.” 

“I don’t suppose you’d let me in on why you decided to kidnap me?”

“It was a spur of the moment decision. I’m very spontaneous.” He playfully spins the chamber of the revolver. “You only have yourself to blame. You shouldn’t have tried to play hero.” He points the revolver at Bruce, aiming right between his eyes, and the mirth on his face abruptly drops away.

Bruce hates guns, he despises them down to their base components. He might not have felt as threatened by Jerome Valeska, the man with a proven need for a show, in this solitary moment if he hadn’t just watched Jerome shoot someone right in front of him. He feels nauseated and tired and desolate, but he has to push those feelings aside because Jerome is doing this to get a reaction, and Bruce has to give him one that he’ll like.

“Excuse me for bringing this up,” he resolutely keeps his eyes locked on Jerome’s and not the gun in his face, “but are you expecting me to believe that, after our particular shared history, you’re really going to shoot me alone in an abandoned warehouse?”

Speaking the words into existence makes the situation both more real and more far-fetched. From everything he’s seen of Jerome, from everything he knows, this is not his style. 

Jerome’s lips twitch. Bruce takes it as a sign to continue. 

“If this is all you were planning on doing you could have just shot me at the diner, or left me to continue fighting that man. If you kill me here with no witnesses on a night when there’s been a massive Arkham breakout, well, anyone could take credit for it.”

“As usual, you do make such good points,” Jerome tells him, sounding oddly pleased, as if Bruce has passed some sort of demented test by not crying out with fear for his own life. As if he’s once again proven himself worthy of a public execution. “I wouldn’t kill you like this, but if I aim somewhere non-vital…” The gun drifts down and Bruce steels himself, not breaking eye contact.

What was physical pain compared to the mental and emotional torment he’s been through lately?

Jerome’s finger pulls the trigger; Bruce hears a click and doesn’t let himself blink.

There’s… Nothing.

“Looks like it’s your lucky day, Bruce. This might have been a sign for you to go make some more money at a roulette wheel if you were old enough to gamble. But wait, this is Gotham and you’re filthy rich, so have at it!” Jerome erupts into laughter. “Here, do you want to try?”

He holds the revolver out. Bruce has enough slack on his hands that he could take it, he could play a game of Russian Roulette with the madman in front of him. He feels weighed down by even the idea of going along with it. If he ended up shooting Jerome he’d never be able to claw his way back to the light. 

Jerome stares him down, smile shrinking but not disappearing completely. After a few moments of Bruce making no move to take the revolver he slips it into the inner pocket of his jacket. “The look on your face; so grim. You know, if you weren’t such a stick in the mud I think that you and I would get on like a. House. On. Fire.”

“Burning everything down around us and leaving nothing but destruction in our wake?”

Jerome’s grin pulls so wide that it almost hurts to look at; it almost looks as though he has too many teeth.

“Exactly! If you ever went turncoat, you and I would make an excellent team.”

Bruce’s blood boils at the mere implication. He grits his teeth and manages to spit out, “that would never happen.”

“Don’t sound too sure,” Jerome sing-songs, “This city really has a flare for bringing out the worst in people, like it’s a sentient being that’s hungry for madness. Or maybe that’s all me.”

Bruce purses his lips tightly. If he opens his mouth now he’s not sure what will come out, and he’d rather not have the revolver pointed at him again.

“Speaking of madness.” Jerome stands up from his slouched position against the desk. “I’m a very busy man. My buddy’s broadcast has come to an end, so I’ve got places to go and people to see. I wouldn’t want you stumbling into anything that’s none of your business. Again. However.” His fingers tap against his burnt lips in contemplation. “If I take you now the whole city will be on high alert to find their precious Wayne, since I’m guessing Jeeves would offer a reward for your safe return. That might end the party before I really get started.” 

“So what?” His tone is more exasperated than he means for it to be. “You’re just going to leave me here?” What did Jerome even get out of this? The thrill of holding a gun in Bruce’s face? The pleasure of a five-minute conversation?

“Yep.” Jerome grins and Bruce glares, not trusting him for obvious reasons. “Try not to get too comfortable. I’ll be back, eventually. Oh, and I found this up your sleeve, not that it would do you any good with both of your hands cuffed separately, but I didn’t want you finding any other uses for it.” He holds Bruce’s lockpick aloft. “You’re trickier than you look, too.” He looks almost-proud, as if Bruce having a trick up his sleeve is something he should be happy about.

“I wish I had the time to chat some more—” and the scariest thing is that he sounds like he means it, “—but I really do have a long list of things to get done. I’ll see you around.” He pats Bruce’s cheek, entirely too chummy. 

Bruce almost wants to bite his hand. Jerome looks at him and whatever he sees on Bruce’s face makes his smile twist, as if he’s pleased about something. 

“Don’t really know when I’ll be back. But here, I’ll let you in on a little trick, seeing as you have once again proven yourself to be incredibly entertaining.” His gloved hands lay over both of Bruce’s, deceptively gentle. “And I don’t want you to bring up that you think I owe you one when my cards start falling into place. To escape from these handcuffs you’d have to, haa, dislocate your thumbs.” He stares into Bruce’s eyes, an unholy glee gleaming in the depths of his.

That’s what Bruce had figured, but the fact that Jerome offered up the tip is somewhat concerning. He wonders if there’s more to this, if it’s a trap, if once he escapes he’ll be caught by someone lying in wait and then Jerome will take his sweet time with a very public death.

“Is there a reason why you’re telling me this?”

“C’mon Bruce. You’re a smart guy; why does anyone give away information?”

To be helpful, to be kind, to share knowledge. None of those seem quite Jerome’s style.

“To see what will be done with it.”

Jerome wants to see if Bruce is willing to hurt himself to get free. Another test for him to pass, perhaps to prove himself worthy of more than an ‘ordinary’ murder. Jerome likely has no idea that Bruce has already hurt himself to escape from handcuffs before.

Jerome reaches out and ruffles his hair, like he’d done at the carnival. The gesture is purposefully patronizing, and Bruce clenches his fists.

“Dislocation is going to hurt a lot more than me sticking you with a few staples,” he says with a certainty that makes something inside of Bruce seize up. Even though Jerome is someone whose influence on Bruce’s life and on Gotham has been undoubtedly awful, there’s a part of him that feels sick and angry and wonders how old Jerome was when he’d first learned the pain of dislocation. “Whether you do or you don’t, you’ll see me around.” 

He sounds so sure of himself as he makes the promise. He obviously has a plan.

Bruce watches Jerome stroll out of the building and resolves to track him down again. Clearly something is brewing, and he needs to know what.

Then he gets to work dislocating his thumbs.

**Author's Note:**

> Cameron Monaghan's acting in this episode, especially in the diner, just--wow.  
> Cool motive, still murder, I know I know, but HIS EYES during the line "And nobody ever helped me... Ever." kill me every time.


End file.
